Along the length of the credenza, the usual silver-domed dishes have been laid out. Putting down my wine and lifting up the first lid, I see crayfish tails, fanned out prettily and dressed with some sort of sauce. I dip a finger into the sauce and suck it.
At the end of the bed is a chest, whose polished surface gleams, reflecting the glow of the many candles. A stack of papers sits neatly at one end of this chest. I bend to look at the topmost sheet. It’s in Spanish. I speak only a few words of Spanish—mostly gleaned from Filippo, in fact—and so, after fingering through the pages for a few moments, I quickly become bored and pat the papers back into a neat pile.
I take my glass up to the top of the bed, wondering if I might save myself some time later by just undressing now and getting under the covers. As it happens, I’m not very hungry, and perhaps, if the Maestre finds me already between his sheets, he might not bother with the meal and I won’t have to eat anything. This dress fastens at the front, so I can take it off by myself quite easily.
Sitting on the bed, I heel off my shoes.
I am just squinting down at my bodice laces, which seem to have become tangled, when the door bangs open, making me jump. I drop the lace-ends and stand up, feeling as if I have been caught out in a misdemeanor, and thanking heaven that I’m not still fingering my way through the Maestre’s private papers. I doubt he would take kindly to that sort of intrusion.
Vasquez strides into the room, accompanied by three men. He does not notice me in the shadows of the bed hangings. He sounds furious. Having turned round to face his three companions, he starts shouting at them in Spanish, brandishing in one fist a sheet of paper that has clearly been folded and sealed at some point, but is now open; Vasquez flaps it in the men’s direction, his face distorting around his angry words.
I have never seen him like this—in my company he has always been softly spoken, eager, and greedily energetic. I can hardly recognize him.
The tirade lasts a few moments, and then, on what is presumably an order of dismissal, the three men leave the room. Vasquez slams the door behind them and kicks it for good measure. He reads what is written on the sheet, then screws it into a ball. Then, pausing for a moment, as though trying to decide what to do, he smooths the paper out and reads it again, crosses to the end of the bed, and lays the crumpled sheet on top of the pile of papers, through which I was riffling only seconds ago. Then, apparently changing his mind again, he picks the letter up once more, folds it, over and over, and pushes it down into a pocket in his breeches.
He looks up then and sees me watching him.
The fury slides off his face like melted wax, leaving his expression quite blank.
My curiosity is wildly aroused, but of course, I say nothing. Anything other than silence at this moment would be inappropriate. After all, I know why I’m here. Holding his gaze, I sit back down on the edge of the mattress, pulling at my laces. The knot, thank goodness, unravels. Still staring at him, I unfasten everything and push the sleeves off my arms. The bodice falls to the floor.
Vasquez remains silent, standing still and staring at me, as though bewitched, as I run my hands over and around my breasts, and then up into my hair. I unhook my skirts and let them fall from me, leaving me standing before him in my shift. With my gaze fixed upon his face, I walk slowly over to the table and pick up a tall, thin red glass jug which I know contains water. I do not look at what I am doing, but, holding my arm up and still staring at Vasquez, I run my tongue over my lips, tilt my chin up, and pour a steady trickle of water from the jug down over the front of my chemise, moving across from shoulder to shoulder. I have to stifle a little gasp—the water is cold, but in fact it’s not unpleasant. The lawn of my shift is instantly transparent; it clings to me like a skin and I feel my nipples contract.
Vasquez’s mouth opens and his gaze drops to my breasts. He looks like a hungry dog staring at a bone.
I think he has forgotten his anger.
***
“You poured water all over yourself? Are you still wearing the wet shift? If you are, you’d best get it off quickly,” Modesto says as he closes the front door and we both go down to my kitchen.
“Yes, I am, but it’s almost dry now. But, Modesto, listen to this. I’ve been saving the best little nugget until we got home. Definitely something to put in my book.”
“What? What is it?”
“Sit down, and I’ll tell you.”
“Just a moment. Wait till I’m ready,” Modesto says. I sit at the big kitchen table and lean on my elbows. Having filled a small bowl with water, Modesto puts it down on the table, then, picking up a handful of kitchen knives, he sits opposite me and lays them out neatly in front of him. Reaching out behind him to a shelf—tipping his chair back onto two legs in the process—he unhooks a long leather strop from where it hangs on the wall, puts one end of it under one foot, and pulls the other end taut with his left hand. With an expression of tender determination on his face, he dips the blade of the longest knife into the water, and starts whetting it against the strop, first one way, then the other, back and forth, with long, smooth, deliberate strokes. The blade hisses very softly, and a thin lather builds up beneath it as Modesto works. Looking up at me, he pauses in his stropping and says, “Well? I’m ready now.”
I wait for a second, to give my revelation a suitable impact, and then, like dropping a stone into a pond, I say into the expectant silence, “Vasquez fathered a child on a nun.”
Modesto stops what he is doing and stares at me. “What? When?”
“I’m not sure—over a year ago, I think.”
“How do you know? What did he say?”
I pause, trying to remember exactly what Vasquez had actually said. “We’d finished, and were lying quietly, side by side. He had his eyes closed and was looking exhausted, when he suddenly turned to me, caught me hard by the wrist, pulled me in toward him and said, ‘You cannot have a child. You must not.’” I imitated Vasquez’s breathy, lisping voice.
“He said that? What did you say?”
“Nothing. I just looked at him.”
“And?”
“He said—I think it was more to himself than to me—‘I’d be utterly disgraced if it happens again.’” I run my fingers over my hair; my braids are coming loose, and the whole edifice is about to come crumbling down.
Modesto puffed out a breath. “He must trust you to have admitted such a thing to a courtesan.”
“Hmm. I’m not sure it’s trust. I think it’s desperation. Anyway, by now, after the shouting and the letter, I was simply bursting with curiosity; I had to know. I asked him—I said, ‘When did it happen before?”’
Modesto smirks at me, shaking his head. “You asked him outright? Merda! You have no shame, Signora,” he says. “Not a shred. Did he tell you?”
I shrug, nodding. “It took him several attempts to manage the admission, but in the end he said it. He didn’t give me much detail, but, as I understand him, he was newly arrived in Italy, and had been billeted for a couple of weeks near a convent in Milano. The sisters were providing food and drink, apparently, and this particular novice had been detailed to take care of him, and…well, one thing led to another, he said, and she ended up expecting his child.”
Modesto pushes his mouth out in a moue of acceptance of this. “What happened to her?” he says.
“Vasquez didn’t say and I didn’t like to ask—you see, I do have some shame. I said that obviously one cannot be certain about these things, but assured him that I always take every possible precaution, as such an eventuality would be as unwelcome to me as it would be to him—I didn’t mention the twins, of course—and he seemed to calm down about it.” I pause, and then add, “I wonder if that letter was about this woman and the child. Maybe that’s what made him think about it tonight. What do you think?”
“Whether it was o
r not, just write all this down, Signora,” Modesto says. “Get your pen out and write down every last word.”
“I will, I promise. And now could you come upstairs with me and help me into some dry clothes, caro? I am still a little damp.”
Seven
The next few weeks pass in something of a blur. Now that I am juggling three regular patrons, two of whom wish to see me at least twice a week, I have almost no time to myself, and, as well as being tired for much of the time, I am becoming increasingly worried about how seldom it seems to be that I can manage to spend more than snatched moments with the twins.
The money I am making is reassuring though. And I suppose that’s the thing: I must just keep putting away safely everything I earn and storing it up. Because I have to: I cannot for a moment contemplate the thought of my girls whoring—even the idea makes me feel sick. I’d rather die than see them doing what I do. Unlike me (I discovered this life late, compared to most), most courtesans are born to it—born into harlotry—like that little snake, Alessandra Malacoda, who, if I am to believe the Neapolitan gossips, was introduced to the delights of the bedchamber at the age of ten by her pimping whore of a mother. No doubt La Malacoda has made her mamma proud of her. And she plans, so I have been told, to be just as proud of her own daughter. Hoping she’ll be kept in luxury in her old age, no doubt. The child is four. God! The very thought makes me retch.
Beata and Isabella have no concept of what I do when I am not with them. I have spun them indeterminate yarns about my activities, which seem to satisfy their undemanding, childish curiosity, and both Ilaria and Sebastiano know that I would dismiss the pair of them instantly if they ever breathed a word of the truth to either girl.
What I am to do when the girls reach an age where they will start to ask more demanding questions, or to search for answers for themselves, I don’t know. I cannot allow myself to think too hard about it; my fears for them almost suffocate me when I let my mind dwell for too long upon what might become of them in years to come. I shall have to find them husbands, I think, and to do that, I will need money. They’ll need dowries. So, whatever I feel about it all and however tired I might become, I must just remember why I am doing it.
And there are recompenses, after all. I have a veritable treat in store this evening—it’s been awhile since I had the pleasure of bedding a virgin.
Whatever the challenges and rewards of one’s more experienced customers, it makes a refreshing change to deflower an innocent. I haven’t had the chance very often. There is something quite charming about seeing a boy’s clumsy attempts gain in confidence as he follows your instructions, though I suppose there is one thing to consider: It has to be said that it is something of a responsibility. More than just ensuring that he enjoys the occasion, there is another, more far-reaching consideration: that the experience he has—literally—in your hands may color the attitude he will bring to any other woman he beds in years to come. With every move you make, you might be setting a standard by which he will judge women for the rest of his life. For myself, I have found that the future happiness of those other, unknown sisters weighs just as heavily on my conscience as the present customer’s immediate pleasure. You must simply “tread carefully,” I suppose you might say. Nothing too alarming. Let him glimpse the possibilities, but do nothing to encourage the sort of vices you—or others—might regret in encounters to come.
Those will come later, with or without your help.
***
It was a most unexpected commission. I had turned away from the market in the Piazza Girolamini with a length of lawn wrapped in waxed paper in a basket over my arm, intending to give it to Bianca the next day, so that she could make a start on “Signora Marrone’s” chaste chemise. The afternoon was bustling again after the quiet of midday, and the streets were already thronging and noisy.
A gaggle of colorfully dressed young men had almost blocked the narrow path at the point at which it joined the piazza, and I had to edge between the group and the rough wall of the corner house to gain access to the street beyond, holding my basket high to keep it from banging against any unwary head or back. One or two of the group broke off from their argument and stared insolently at me as I picked my way across the cobbles. At least some of them appeared to have recognized me, though I am now far beyond the pockets of men such as these. I pretended to ignore them as they nudged each other and jerked their heads in my direction. Even after more than ten years’ whoring, though, a group like this makes me nervous, and I walked a little faster, aware of a faint twinge in my scar. I wished Modesto was with me. They hurled suggestive comments at me like lewd missiles; the ribald remarks followed me until I was able to turn the corner at the far end of the street, but the men did not move. I made no sign that I had heard them at all, though behind the dignified exterior I was struggling not to turn back toward them, to let loose a volley of insults of my own. I know a choice few.
I walked on for some moments, breathing steadily again and taking my time to balance on the uneven cobbles in my infernally uncomfortable chopines. Stupid things—I cannot imagine why such unusable shoes were ever invented, and were it not for the fact that they are so much admired in Venice, I should not be bothering to try to introduce them here.
I never feel at ease when I am wearing them, though.
I can’t run in them.
I clutched handfuls of my heavy skirts and stepped up onto one of the ridges created by last summer’s quake. The ridge runs right down the length of the street, like a cutlass scar along the forearm of a privateer, reminding me unpleasantly of that terror-soaked day last July when the earth cracked and shook for what seemed like hours.
“Excuse me, Signora…”
In contrast to the mocking taunts I had just endured, the voice that cut through the jostling chatter and into my thoughts was polite—cultured even—and I smiled as I turned to see who had spoken.
“Might I speak with you?” The slight edge of awkwardness in the voice of the young man I now saw, and the pucker of anxiety between his dark brows, made me wonder if this might perhaps be potential business.
“Can I help you?”
He hesitated.
“It is…Signora Felizzi, isn’t it?”
I eyed my new companion curiously. Neither tall nor short, well built and square-jawed, he was dressed in a dark-green doublet and breeches of obviously superior quality. He wore his clothes with a faint air of self-consciousness, as though the items were a very new purchase and thus still unfamiliar. In style, his garments seemed designed for someone rather older: perhaps he needed to impress in his line of work. His dark hair he wore a little longer than is currently fashionable. He looked, in short, as though he might be able to afford me.
“I have been told of your…growing reputation…Signora…”
I raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Indeed? And just what ‘reputation’ might that be, Signore?”
He held my gaze but flushed. I waited for a moment, rather enjoying his discomfiture, and then helped him out. “How did you know you had found the right person?”
“I was given a description.”
“Which was?”
The young man’s color deepened still further. He said, “I was told to watch out for a woman with black hair, brown eyes, and the sort of beauty that would make me catch my breath.”
Trying not to look too pleased with this, I asked, “And who gave you this description?”
“Michele di Cicciano. I had approached him to ask for his help with a small problem, Signora,” my companion continued. “A problem of a very delicate nature. I have a good friend who has a younger brother, about whom he has been worrying a great deal.”
So this young man was not seeking my favors for himself. A shame. But, whatever the business was, it needed to be discussed. “Perhaps, before you tell me any more, we should go somewhere a litt
le more discreet,” I suggested.
My new friend agreed. We walked together for some moments without speaking and found a low wall in the shadows of the great Castel Nuovo, where we both sat down.
The young man began again. “Well. This boy is a fine lad, but what is bothering my friend is that his brother seems to have shown no inclination at all to initiate himself into…into…” He flushed an interesting shade of dark pink and stumbled as he tried to complete his sentence.
“Into…the ways of the world?” I suggested.
He grasped the straw gratefully. “Exactly! And Signor di Cicciano feels that you might be the perfect person to…er…bring this state of affairs to a satisfactory conclusion…without denting the lad’s self-esteem…” He trailed off.
“And just how old is your friend’s brother?” I asked.
“Nearly eighteen, Signora.”
With a disbelieving half-laugh, I said, “Not so old that his reluctance to perform should be a cause of anxiety, surely?”
“His brother thinks it is, Signora. He has his reasons.”
I paused, wondering what those reasons might be, though I was able to hazard a guess. Perhaps he was afraid his young brother might prefer…dallying with his own kind. The penalties for proven sodomy are so terrible nowadays that were this so, the young man’s brother’s fears would be well-founded. Contemplating the thought that I might have been chosen merely as an extremely expensive way of luring a young man from the perils of perversion, I asked, “Why do you think I should be interested in this child?”
“Hardly a child, Signora. Gianni is perhaps a head taller than me, and already has regular recourse to a razor.”
Something did not feel right. I wanted to know what the real reason for this commission might be. “In that case,” I said, frowning, “why should so impressive a young man need the services of a bedfellow as expensive as myself? Would not a girl of his choice suit him as well, and leave his—or his brother’s—pocket considerably better stocked?”
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